


Ah Sugar~

by drofeilrah



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Mechanic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Fluff, Good puns, Hance - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, all puns, hanceome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drofeilrah/pseuds/drofeilrah
Summary: You know that idea where, "In every universe, I'll find you." Folks, I daresay we've got just that kind of AU cooking here.What happens when a mechanic falls in love with a baker? Great things, I tell you. Great things.





	1. Loaf Makes The World Go Round

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on this site ever and I am so so excited to publish it. I've no idea where I'm going to go with it and what it may become, but hey! That's the joy of writing. Anyways, thank you so much for reading! Have a lovely day/evening/life :')

_“Ah sugar~”_

Shit.

I just wanted to check out the new bakery. Get some fresh bread, maybe an apple fritter; hell, just a dollar snickerdoodle would have been great. I mean, the place is only a five minute walk from the shop and it would have been a quick in and out.

_“Ah, honey honey~”_

But here I am, not moving an inch, just staring. Face red, hands clammy, throat indescribably dry (I can hear Pidge yelling out “Thirsty!” in my subconscious), and this guy- this unbelievable, free spirit of a guy- is paying no attention to my blatant suffering. He’s too caught up in belting out the lyrics to the most ridiculous bakery-pandering song. And it’s beautiful.

_“You are my Candy Giiiirl!! And you’ve got me wanting yo-”_

I coughed.

Shit times two.

Now we’re both staring. Oh God, why didn’t I just say something when I walked in. Why did I have to get baked goods in the first place. Oh my God, my face is on fire, I can literally feel it melting off into a puddle of despair.

He smiles. Bright and toothy and immediately, he jumps into conversation. “Oh! Yeah, wow, I didn’t even hear you come in. Guess you got a free sample of _Sugar_ there, ha. Heh.”

He’s sheepish, his hand coming around to scratch at the back of his neck. Still smiling, though, if a bit unsure.

“I-” my voice cracks, as if I hadn’t used it in years. “... Sorry.”

Concern. I watch it bleed into his smile with the rise of his eyebrows. I’ve ruined the joke.

He doesn’t hesitate, though, settling back into an easier posture, hands resting on the counter behind him. “Oh, please, it’s totally cool, dude. I’m always excited to show off my singing skills.”

I think my face is rising the temperature in the front of this shop. He is stunning and I can feel my heart already spiraling into a pit of crush filled despair. I really need to stop with the “falling in love with people who pay the slightest attention to me” thing.

I forget to reply, leaving his comment suspended in the air, tethered to a lost conversation.

He’s unfazed, though, removing flour-caked gloves while speaking. “So, what can I help you with? We’ve got sandwiches, drinks, baked goods, and plenty of candy if you’re feeling a hankering for some sweet tooth satisfaction.”

“Bread?” I ask, somehow managing to recall the exact reason I came here in the first place.

Surprise shoots through his eyes; I know it’s because I finally provided an answer he could easily respond to. Honestly, I am far more socially adept than this. I was just caught off guard.

But light also fills them, eyes widening in excitement as he starts listing off all the options I have. “We have rye, sourdough, pane francese, baguettes, whole wheat, multi-grain, green olive, croissants, bollito, pimento, all kinds of twists-” he’s flitting to each one, pointing and grabbing and placing it back down again- “-aaaand we’ve got your traditional white bread, but that’s typically bought by parents who don’t know what sandwich bread their kids want.”

Intently, he stares at me, standing still besides an ancient cash register. I finally have a moment to catch his name tag.

_Lance._

“Ah,” I say, “uhm…”

He waits, patiently. Kindly. I have a good idea of what I want, but not necessarily the bread I need, so I simply ask, “French toast bread?”

The toothy grin appears again. Spinning around, he grabs a massive loaf, fairly round in shape, and proudly shows it to me. “Pane-”

“Francese?” I finish.

The smile widens. “You actually caught that?”

I feel like I’m withering and growing at the same time under the beam of his elation. I’m having a hell of a time recalling anyone who was ever as bright as this guy.

“Yeah,” I reply, shoulders shrugging of their own volition. “I’m not too bad at following fast talk. Comes with the job.”

He’s already wrapping the loaf in paper- knows I’m gonna buy it. The criss cross slices on top sucked me in- hands deft, professional, voice curious. “Fast talking job, huh?” His head snaps up. “Dude, I bet you’re the guy at the end of commercials who practically speed raps all the crazy legal stuff we have to know, but won’t ever understand.”

Fast air blows out through my nose; not quite a laugh, not quite a snort, but definitely humored nonetheless. “Absolutely not. Sure, I can keep up with fast talk, doesn’t mean I can do it myself. You, on the other hand, not bad. Bread raps and commercial legalese could be your thing.”

That pulls a loud laugh from him, one that literally required him to lean his head back and wipe at his eyes. “That, my friend, was hilarious. I don’t know if I can bread rap, but I promise I can bread _wrap_ better than half of the state.”

I’m lost until he tosses my wrapped up pane towards me. Another pun. Oh my God, I’m gonna lose my mind; puns are one of my favorite forms of comedy.

We’re both laughing; low, high, I think I snorted, he definitely did. How did this turn around so quickly? I shouldn’t be able to do this with someone like him.

I can feel the dirt and grease under my fingernails; I can’t ever get it all, no matter if I scrub my fingers raw. Sweat and oil stains track along my shirt, boots worn and falling apart, pants fairing no better than my shirt. Hair: long, shaggy, held back by a handmade headband (kind of like Rambo, but only as cool as Bleeker’s from Juno (see: not that cool)). Scars and callouses work their way from my hands, up my arms, around my shoulders, and down my legs.

I’m not exactly confident that anyone will ever call me handsome in my lifetime. Let alone beautiful.

Which is exactly what Lance the Baker is. And why I should leave immediately and never return because I’ve now discovered I also want coffee. With him. And that’s something that just doesn’t happen for someone like me.

My eyes drop to stare at my beige packaged bread; reality coming in fast to remind me that even if I had a chance, I’d probably just screw it up. The underwhelming amount of self-confidence I have typically drives people away first.

A cough comes from Lance, and I raise my eyes to meet his. “So, really? What do ya do?”

The black in my nail beds oozes out, covering my hands and filling my throat. Voices of disappointment and revulsion seep in and out; parents, partners, peers.

“I’m a mechanic,” my voice supplies, marred by monotony. I’m already pulling out my wallet, black now dripping on the floor. “What do I owe you?”

There’s no reply and I look up. He’s got one eyebrow raised and his lips are pursed. I can nearly see the sentences churning in his head.

Finally, he replies, “It’s on the house if I get a name and a promise for lunch.”

I choke on the air between us.


	2. We All Knead Somebody To Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At exactly 1:00 a.m., I decided to finish writing this update. Two hours later, I was full of spaghetti (and regretti) and found that I wrote a fiNISHED CHAPTER!!! Tip to fellow writers (and past me): Relax. It's okay if you don't have the perfect word or a perfect plot. Sometimes you just have to write ridiculous fluff, with a good dosage of angst, and not worry about a thing. Anyways, hope you all enjoy the update and I'll see you at the end!

It’s cold and miserable and all I’ve got is this loaf of bread pressed against my chest to remind me that I am here. I am now.

_“It’s on the house if I get a name and a promise for lunch.”_

Who even says that? No one does. Nobody. It’s absolutely unrealistic. 

Everything that just happened keeps playing in a loop, over and over. I laugh, his smile falters, I realize he’s being serious, I choke again, I stammer, he tells me not to stress out, “Seriously, it’s okay, just take the bread,” I throw whatever money I had on the counter and I- 

Oh god, how did I- no why _did I._

_“Hunk. I'm Hunk.”_

And I slammed out the front door, hurrying back to the shop, his smile burning into the back of my head.

I’m a goddamn travesty.

And in the chilled hours of the morning, I can’t ignore the heat my face is giving off and the big stupid soup of emotion boiling in my chest. 

XXXXXXXXX

The lights are already on when I reach the shop. They were on when I left last night, too.

I walk in through the front office, carefully hanging my jacket over a chair and padding quietly out towards the garage, pane in tow.

I can see them in the back office, hunched over an entirely new project than the one I left them with last night. I consider leaving them be, but we don’t open up for another hour or so, so I end up rapping on the door and let myself in. Pidge stares at me with exhaustion written into the light bruising under their eyes.

“Hunk, please do not tell me it’s morning already.”

I shrug and pat their head. “I’ve got some weird bread to make into french toast if you wanna quit for a bit.”

They sigh and pull out of their chair, bones cracking and popping here and there. “You know I’m always ready for funky french toast.”

It’s technically not a kitchen- it just has a couple cupboards, coffee, a vending machine, and a mini fridge- but that never stopped me from making it into one. Our electric griddle does a fine job and I’m here enough that I just keep spices and few necessary food items around. When Pidge stays up like this, it’s of utmost importance I get them to eat something (specifically, something that’s a little more nutritious than chips).

Lance the Baker was right, though. Pane francese is awesome french toast bread.

Pidge is sitting up on the counter, watching me cook as their legs swing back and forth, hitting the wall behind them. I tossed some cinnamon and vanilla in and the place smells a little less like grease. It’s nice. Warm. I like it here.

I’m startled out of my food zone as Pidge knocks on my forehead.

“Earth to Hunk, Earth to Hunk. I'm talking about a super cool thing and you're not listening.” 

With a little laugh, I apologize and flip the toast. “Okay, okay, the Hunk has landed. What’s up?”

Pidge hops off the counter, a familiar grin on their face. They only get like this about technology. “Butt warmers, Hunk.”

I squint at them, trying to see if they're just messing around. But the grin is still there, so I wait for an explanation.

Slowly, Pidge says, “Automated. Butt. Warmers.”

Yeah, no, I don't even know what to say. “Pidge, you're trying to tell me that you stayed up all night for… butt warmers?”

“Okay, hear me out. So. It's cold. And you're climbing in your car. And all you want is a warm seat but all you get is a sad and cold cushion.”

“Mhm...”

“And now you either have to wait for your car to heat up or, if you're lucky, you have pre-installed seat warmers which you have to press a button to start up.”

Another flip for the toast. Yeah, these are going to be amazing. “Alright, I see. Cold butt in a cold car. No good.”

“Exactly! But with this tech, the warmer always processes the temperature outside of the car and adjusts accordingly. So, you know, when you hop in your car, your fingers about ready to fall off and your tush is covered in goosebumps, you'll be able to fall into a sauna of a seat.”

I give them a side eye accompanied by a grin. “No more cold butts.”

They smile. “No more cold butts.”

I turn back to the toast, plating them and grabbing some syrup and butter. “Just imagine if you made that tech portable. No more cold butts anywhere.”

XXXXXXXXX 

I’m staring at the underbelly of an ancient Volkswagen trying to make sense of the foreign build. Pidge is off to my right, laying atop the creeper, their arms flopped wide and making guttural noises which I decipher as them being content.

“That was the best fuckin’ french toast I’ve ever had in my whole life, Hunk."

I hum as a sign I’ve heard them. The minimalist design of this car is incredible. Clearly suited for aesthetics before practicability, but it’s not a bad model. Makes identification of parts easier.

“Really, my dude. You ought to make a restaurant.”

I close my eyes, breathing in the oil and metal above me. “Now, Pidge. Who’d take care of the shop?”

A groan and the creak of wood announces that they’ve gotten up. “Me, of course.”

I shake my head, eyes opening and body turning to reply to them. “Better question: who would take care of you?”

Pidge crosses their arms, defiant and defensive and all too aware that I will never lose this argument no matter how many times they start it. “Me. Of course.”

An eyebrow raises itself of its own accord and I let them decide on how to interpret it.

“Yeah, alright,” they begin. “You always pull that one on me, you dick.”

Smiling, I turn back to the VW. The flow of gas is stunted, leaving room for air and kicking the engine out of its rhythm. A phone rings in the main office and I listen as Pidge purposefully stomps their way over to it; they know I’m right, but God, do they hate admitting when they’re wrong.

They love this shop. Relatively unlimited access to resources and materials, as well as the equipment they didn’t have to purchase; makes for a great environment for them to stretch their engineering fingers in. Unfortunately, despite their brilliance, they completely fail any concept of self-sufficiency. Since we were college roommates, I made it my duty to keep them above the water. Granted, they helped me out of my own ocean first. Leaving them isn’t even a thought.  

And really, I don’t mind the shop, either. Fixing near impossible breaks, solving intricate problems in metalwork, meeting people from all strokes of life; it puts my mind to work and few things are more pleasing than making broken things whole again.

The problem is that I never saw myself here. As a kid, I really was planning on opening a restaurant. Making my mom proud by bringing world peace through happy stomachs. But then you grow up and realize that the letters your mom received in the mail were actually bills and life isn’t as easy as you thought it was. And then you end up in a college for mechanics because it makes money and you meet the smartest person in your life and it turns out that they already have a job open for you and you can start right away on making big numbers smaller.

I’m thankful for Pidge and the shop. It’s just that the air tastes an awful lot like adulthood all of the time. It’s a foul taste. Bad for any recipe. I do not recommend trying it at all.

My hands lower from the fuel tank, forearms covered in crud. A loose seal seems to be the root of the problem. I look over towards the office with my “I figured it out” smile on. It quickly slips off when I see Pidge pointing between me and the phone in their hand with a wicked grin on their face.

Obviously, my own face looks like a question mark because they lean into the doorway, calling out, “Phone’s for you, Mister I-Didn’t-Tell-Pidge-Exactly-Where-I-Got-My-Bread-From-This-Morning Garrett.”

The shop smells like a bakery for a flash of a second.

Oh my God.

If I were to have possibly sprinted into the office, Pidge makes no comment. Instead, they hand me the phone, saying, “That’s one cute voice asking for you, Hunk.”

_Oh my God._

They press the phone into my hand and lean back on the desk. Cautiously, I hold it up to my ear.

“H-Hello? This is Hunk speaking.”

There’s a laugh on the other side.

_“You paid me way too much earlier, you know? And a business card doesn’t exactly have any monetary value, but it is certainly priceless when I’m about to ask for a date.”_

My face is on fire and it’s a wonder that the rest of the world isn’t. My hand hovers over the wallet in my pocket and even though it’s largely my own imagination, I can feel the empty spot where I kept the shop’s business card in. It must have fallen out in my rush to pay and leave before I made a fool of myself.

_“So, what do you say master mechanic Hunk. Tomorrow at noon? You? Me? Coffee?”_

I stare wide-eyed at Pidge and they're just looking right back at me like they’re watching their favorite soap opera.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

There’s another laugh, almost one of relief.

_“Okay.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A creeper is the name of those skateboard things mechanics use to slide under cars. Pidge uses it to get them around when they're too lazy to walk. 
> 
> And yes. That ending smells a lot like TFIOS and you know what it was 3:00 a.m. and I was feeling mega sappy. Don't worry, there are no terminal diseases in this, I promise. 
> 
> Next time: LUNCH!!!


	3. I Like You A Latte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk and Pidge, Hunk and crowds, Hunk and Lance, Hunk and love; there's so much Hunk content here folks. Prepare to smile. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be attempting to complete the multiple college essays that are piling up on my agenda, but alas, writing a 2,600+ word update for you all is far more preferable. Try and suffocate me now you Text-Criticism-Theory prompts!!! Haha, okay, well anyways, I hope you all had a very happy Valentine's Day and even though I didn't get this chapter out on the day of love, I still think it's pretty sweet. Anyways, I'm done clogging up the notes. See you at the end!

I can feel Pidge’s eyes tracking me as I pace from one end of the living room to the other. I imagine our neighbors below us doing the same through the floor underneath my feet.

“Pidge, really, it’s not a big deal.”

I hear a tired, “Uh huh.”

“I mean really, it’s just coffee. Everyone gets coffee.

Another mumble of agreement.

I stop walking and turn to them. “I’m not stressing out, right? I think I’m being really reasonable right now.”

They stare at me from the couch, tight-lipped amongst the clothes I’ve haphazardly thrown there. In my hand is another article that was nearly doomed to the same fate. The look on their face provides me with my own conclusion about what they planned on saying.

I am absolutely stressing out.

I fall back into a chair with my legs stretched out and one arm slung over the armrest, hand still clutching a sweater. The other is bent towards my face, fingers pressing against my eyes. It is 11:23 a.m. It would take me fifteen minutes to get there if I were to hit every “Do Not Cross” sign on the way. I still have time.

There are plenty of other scenarios and choices I have yet to go through which requires at least a year of contemplation. Yet, the thing that gets me all tied up is what shirt to wear.

I whisper a short explicative at the ceiling. The ceiling takes the curse without a reply. I drop my chin to look at Pidge. They’re still looking at me. I check my watch. 11:25 a.m.

The silence apparently becomes too stifling and Pidge rips it in half with a burst of words.

“You know, Hunk, this is a wild concept and one you’ve probably discussed with yourself at great length already, but, you know, what if you were to just… be... you?”

I can’t help the surprise in my voice. “I have not yet... attempted that approach.”

Pushing up off the coach, their reply is marked with, as they would say it, salt. “Well, I’ll be damned, I daresay we’ve made a breakthrough.”

I frown. It’s 11:27.

They shake their head, shaggy hair swaying side to side. “Hunk,” they begin, tone a touch softer. “Listen. The guy already met you. He knows what you look like and he already decided he likes it. He. Likes. You. And it’s fine if you don’t know how to feel about it all right now, so that’s why this can just be coffee.” They pause. “Just. Go have coffee, Hunk. Have fun. Enjoy yourself. God knows you deserve to."

Oh.

Well, that’s yet another scenario I’ve completely missed. Really just raced on past that one. This is just coffee. Even though I know where he stands and I’m pretty much set on where I stand (filed under "if I could hold his hand for the rest of my life, I’d be okay with that"), we can still just take it easy and simply have coffee. Which is what I wanted in the first place when I met him.

I grab Pidge in a hug and a smothered laugh puffs out. With all the earnestness in my being, I thank them. More smothered laughs come up between us.

They tap me on the shoulder and I release them delicately. With a tinge of pride in the lines of their smile, they say, “Go get em, tiger.” 

I look at my watch. It’s 11:32.

I have plenty of time

XXXXXXXXX

I did not, in fact, have enough time.

Not only did I manage to hit every pedestrian version of a red light on the way there, it appeared as though there was a wine tasting event going on. The sidewalks were packed with a near immovable force of people and all of them had some form of alcohol in their hands. Trying to get past them was clearly suited for a character in Mission Impossible, not an actual human being.

Nonetheless, I make do and I practically fall into the coffee shop, my breath heavy after maneuvering through the crowds. A bell clatters above me, the force of the door opening awakening some tinkling beast within. It’s 12:18. I can feel my ears heating up underneath my hat. Everyone is probably staring. He probably left.

I look up and it’s business as usual. I think The Cure is playing. All of the tables are filled, there’s a normal buzz of conversations-

And he’s still here.

He’s still here.

Our eyes catch and his face immediately bursts into a grin, a hand up in the air waving with all the enthusiasm in the world.

Stress: relieved. Anxiety: gone. My heart: aflutter. I’m forcibly thrown right back to the first moment I saw him.

And it’s amazing.

I make my way over to him, careful not to bump into any tables or people. Spilling someone’s drink is definitely one of the scenarios I prepped myself against before coming here.

“Hi,” I say, finally reaching his table.

“Hey,” he replies, that blinding smile still on his face.

A beat of silence. He glances towards the chair opposite of him.

“Oh. Yeah, I should probably sit.”

He laughs, agrees with me, and I sit down. And everything is okay. Nothing is on fire or exploding and for once, it doesn’t seem like everyone’s eyes are on me.

Just his.

I notice he already has a coffee, his hand hanging loosely around it. Yeah, Hunk, you were late, remember?

My eyes dart up quickly to his. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for an explanation. It’s more like he’s letting me settle in. Giving me room to relax in. I explain myself anyways. 

“Yeah, wow, I am so sorry. I’m actually a pretty punctual person, but today just kinda seemed adamant that I wouldn’t get here on time.” I pause, look at him again, and finish. “Sorry.”

He apparently takes it very seriously, his face suddenly solemn, contemplating his answer. “Well, I’m sorry, too,” a long pause. My heart thumps. He continues, “Because I only got here a few minutes ago myself.” His face breaks back into a smile and I feel my face heat up.

“Really?” I ask.

He laughs. “Really. I mean, who the heck would’ve thought there’d be a Wine Walk in the middle of February? I didn’t even see any flyers around for it, you know? But somehow the whole city ended up here anyways.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

I really was. Seriously. It’s cold as hell outside.

I glance once more at his coffee, and ask, “Are you sure I didn’t make you wait too long?”

He must have noticed the look because he picks his cup up, takes a sip, and places it back down. “Absolutely, one hundred percent positive. Even without wine tasters, this place can get pretty busy, so I just went ahead and called my order in. They had it ready when I walked in the door.”

I nod, explanation clear and concise. I trust that he’s not just saying that to make me feel better.

It’s quiet again for a moment and he clears his throat. Suddenly he sticks out his hand between us. “I haven’t really introduced myself, so hi, I’m Lance. Part-time pastry maker, full-time flirt.” He adds on in a rush, “And I’m really happy that you’re here.”

It almost sounds rehearsed and the thought makes me smile. I take his hand in mine and shake it lightly. “Hunk. Full-time mechanic and annual champion of never knowing when the Wine Walk is. I’m happy I’m here, too.”

XXXXXXXXX

We manage to escape outside from the back of the coffee shop, avoiding the growing amount of people out front. Lance is laughing, chin tucked into his chest.

“So, long story short, they actually were able to send an egg launcher to a major car company because their pitch said it was ‘for emergencies’?” He asks, snickering to himself.

I grin, my hands stuffing deep into my coat pockets as a gust of wind travels through the alley we’re in. “Indeed. And then the CEO replied and said ‘Although we appreciate all safety measures brought to us, your _Egg Launcher: Rover Edition_ just isn’t the right fit for a car accessory. However, the design, as you put it, is indeed “eggcellent” and we will be keeping it here in our labs for crash testing.’”

Lance’s jaw drops. “No way,” he says.

“Oh, yes way. If you ever find that your car can withstand eggs being violently hurled at it, you can thank Pidge for it.”

His voice is captured in awe. “Wow… Yeah, I’m going to have to meet them ASAP. I need to see how many egg puns I can crack around them.”

I smirk. “Well, yolks on you. I’ve already cooked them all up.”

He stops, clutching his heart. “Was that a double pun?”

Pleased, I say, “Surprising, I know. But you should have eggspected that much because I consider myself a master pun comedi-hen.”

He looks at me in a sort of way that I can’t seem to interpret, a thought caught in his throat.

But it dies there because he follows up with another pun and it starts a crappy joke war that continues during our walk around the city. Eventually, Lance heads us into an apartment complex area, quieter than the usual bustle of life found back where we came from. There are actual trees here. Unlike mine, slapped right on the edge of a car busy road. Lance slows down in front of one and I assume we’ve come to his. It’s older, made of red bricks and big windows. Looks expensive.

The concept of finances passes quickly through my head as we come to a full stop. I realize that not even once along the way did I think about ending our conversation. I don’t think he did either. Hours have passed and yet, all we did was talk.

Huh.

He looks up at the building, his cheeks and nose red from the cold. It gives me a chance to really look at him and realize, yet again, that he is strikingly attractive. I mean, I’ve been thinking it this whole time, but he’s an incredibly active speaker, constantly gesticulating and using his body to articulate emotion. Seeing him still like this is nice.

I think about my four hours of fighting with what outfit to wear being so pointless because I ended up with my usual coat, scarf, and hat combo over it all. And even then, even if I were wearing the finest clothes on Earth, I still have trouble believing he voluntarily gave me the time of day. I’m a mechanic, for God's sake. Who just decides that they want to go out to lunch with a mechanic? Or just someone like me, in general. By society’s standards, I’m usually best for being the butt of a food joke.

That’s generally how it went with… others. Either they realized how labor-oriented my job actually is and decided cubicle workers were more interesting or… well, the obvious. Even though I’m in great shape, I’m still a heavy guy. And somehow every one of them couldn’t figure out that fat doesn’t always mean unhealthy and decided I wasn’t worth their time. That or they were so dedicated to trying to change me as a person, that they forgot they were supposed to actually like me, too.

Suddenly, I realize I’ve been in my head for too long and Lance has simply been standing quietly in front of me. I look up and I see that he’s already been looking back at me. For how long, I’m not sure.

He almost looks nervous, his hands wringing, eyes dropping to the ground.

“Well,” he begins, a long emphasis on the e. “This is my place so I guess, well, I mean.” He sighs, settling his shoulders and raising his gaze back on me. “I want to apologize.”

Confusion clearly flashes across my face because he’s following himself up in a flurry of words.

“Well, okay, it’s not what you think it is, or maybe it is, but okay, I feel like I have been way too pushy. I mean when I called you that morning after you left your business card... well, who does that? Mega creepy. But then you said okay when I asked you out and even now that I see you here, I don’t know if you’re just being kind, but-” he breathes,”-when you walked into the bakery, everything seemed to fall into its right place and I really really like you and I’m really sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or pressured to be here.”

His face is flushed and clouds of steam puff out with each breath he takes. His body language screams worriedness. And somehow I'm calm. Completely serene. Maybe it's because I'm not the only who's been stressing about what this might be. I'm not the only one falling hard.

I laugh a little and it's his turn to look confused. For some reason it makes me laugh harder, my chest feeling free for the first time in quite awhile. Hurt seems to replace the confusion and I quickly sober.

“Lance, I spent  _hours_ trying to decide which shirt to wear this morning so I could actually impress you. I was thinking about you when I was replacing a serpentine belt and I screwed the whole thing up because I was rehearsing conversation ideas. And when you were singing in the bakery, it took me exactly two seconds to decide that you are one of the most beautiful people I've ever met and trust me when I say that I thought about having coffee with you before you asked me. If I've seemed hesitant in any way it's solely because I've never had great luck with… people, but my God, I really really like you, too.”

He was already beaming halfway through. My last words stretch his smile even further and he takes a step towards me. I notice he's slightly shorter.

“Really?” he asks.

“Really really,” I answer, pressing my phone into his hand with my contacts pulled up to make it even clearer for him. “Think I could have your number?”

Finally, I get him flustered instead of the other way around and I internally congratulate myself because I can’t recall a time when I’ve been so successfully smooth. He quickly types in his information and apparently figures out how to get the camera to work because he holds my phone up and snaps a picture.

He hands it back to me and the picture cracks me up. He could’ve made himself look good, but instead, he chose to pull a face and look ridiculous. I think my smile muscles are worn out because I grin for the nth time today and my cheeks feel sore.

When I look up, I see that he’s pulled his phone out and apparently caught a candid picture of me for my own contact picture. Clearly, he sent a message to himself from my phone, too.

I look at it and shake my head. Any outside observer would say I am absolutely smitten in that picture. They wouldn’t be wrong.

“You know that’s not fair,” I say. “How come you’re the only one who gets to look silly?”

With a wink, he answers, “Because I don’t think you could handle my ultimate picture pose. It’s way too powerful.”

“Oh, I understand. I’d die in an instant or something, right?”

“Exactly. Your heart would burst from how incredibly good looking I am.”

My heart beats hard in reply. Again, I can't say he's wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: 
> 
> One, Hunk and Pidge do live together!! If that seems inconsistent with the previous chapter because "Hunk should've known Pidge stayed at the shop if they live together" or something like that, just trust me when I say it makes sense because otherwise you're gonna have to sit through paragraphs of headcanons and no one wants that. 
> 
> Two, the Wine Walk is a real thing. The day I started writing this, I tried to meet up with a friend and I pretty much suffered the same fate as Hunk. It was awful. But I'm okay! And now you all have a cute dialogue filled version of my suffering!! So all is well, haha. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you all for reading and commenting and the like. This is really the fluffiest most self-indulgent thing I've ever created, but you guys seem to like it, so I'm just gonna keep this happy train rolling. Have a great day/evening/life and see you next time!!


	4. Fresh Baked Gluten Free Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a two part update! Expect the second chapter tomorrow!! Because I was suddenly inspired to write 4500 words and who wants to read all of that at once!!! (I'm sure you guys would, but patience. Patience.) Picnics, phone calls, and a Pidge appearance are waiting for you so what are you doing here reading this? Go!! Read, ya cutie!!

I never thought my unlimited text and call plan would ever be used for anything other than the paragraph long texts my mom sends me, but then again, I never thought I would meet someone like Lance. I suppose it suffices to say, but he takes great advantage of living in an era where “minutes” have become all but obsolete.

I wake up to good morning texts and fall asleep to goodnight texts and my day is filled with pictures of bread and a snuck in phone call when there’s a lull in the car flow.

But even more than that, he takes full advantage of any free time either of us can spare. For lunch, I make my way to the bakery for pastries. On his weekends, we take walks and I make food for picnics. The streak of nice weather inspired me and it’s sort of become routine, including Lance’s decision to marathon one-sided twenty questions mid-chow time. Eventually, one weekend includes an inquiry about my knack for good grub.

“Really,” he says, “this is insane. This is restaurant quality picnicking, Hunk. When did you learn how to cook like this?”

I expected him to ask at some point. I work out my prepared answer casually like the topic didn’t actually have a novella length origin story. “Well, I thought that when I was older, my professional hands would be coated in flour rather than grease, but things happen and you end up knowing how to repair a Jag while touting multiple blue ribbons for best pies and spaghetti and the like.”

Lance falls back into the grass, struck by deep thought.

I look down at him while munching on a veggie sandwich. “Whatchya thinkin’ about,” I ask through chews, hoping the answer veers us away from the subject of food.

His fingers tap out a rhythm on his stomach as he answers. “First of all, I didn’t know there were spaghetti contests and I’m considering how to get myself on a judge’s panel solely to have unlimited spaghetti. But, you know…” he pauses, clearly taking care with whatever he’s about to suggest. “You could always go after those flour-caked hands, you know?”

It slightly stings. And by slightly, I mean not slightly at all. Did I say novella length origin story? How about a trilogy with three shitty prequels. I know he doesn’t know any better. I mean, we’ve never talked about this before. But it doesn’t stop me from putting my sandwich down and looking away from him.

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I manage to create out of the tightness in my chest.

He must’ve quickly gotten the memo that the topic was Not Okay, letting his original reply sizzle out of existence. The tightness quickly goes away as I look back at his face and see an apology written in his flared nostrils and pursed lips.

_Ah, shit._

“No, no, it’s okay Lance. It just turned out that adulting was a little more difficult than I thought it’d be. My mom, well, she’s by herself and when my dad left… he also left quite the debt. So, I was already pretty good at fixing things and figured being a mechanic was a relatively safe job, at least money wise. Something always needs to be fixed, right? And right now, I’m working on fixing the world my mom lives in. She wanted me to do what I loved, too, though. Flour caked hands just aren’t realistic is all,” I finish.

Lance sits back up and nods. “I understand. A little. I’m sorry your dad left you guys like that.”

Jeez, yeah, again Hunk. Master at conversation, aren’t you. Just gonna drop the ‘my dad left my family’ line like it’s nothing.

The internal reprimanding escapes me with a sigh. Lance’s eyes flick to mine and I realize that it sounded like a sigh directed at him. God dammit.

Quickly, I say, “Wait, no, it’s fine, Lance. I mean. What he did isn’t fine, but it was such a long time ago, it’s just… fine.”

This time he just nods and leaves it at that clearly lost as to how to proceed with the conversation. I can’t blame him; twenty questions never went this deep before. As I watch him pick at the grass, however, I realize that I’d like to tell him more. Not right now, but at some point, I’d like to let him know everything.

It’s a strange feeling to have that applied to someone who’s not my mom or Pidge. All my life, I’ve only had those two to confide in and now, only after a few weeks, Lance has become that kind of person to me.

“Hey,” I whisper to Lance, carefully disturbing him from his intense focus on a growing pile of grass clippings.

“Yeah?” he replies, slightly too cheerfully.

“You don’t have to be afraid to ask me things. I trust you.”

He immediately looks up, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open in surprise. “Yeah?” he asks with genuine emotion and relative awe.

“Yeah,” I reply.

XXXXXXXXX

Trust, as it turns out, ends up as a hot topic of conversation when my mom calls me the next day.

 _“- and you just wouldn’t believe what that man did next!”_ she yells out on the other end of the line.

I laugh in response. “I really can’t, mom.” Her tendency for the dramatic always makes me smile.

 _“He told me to just fall back! In the arms of all these people who I didn’t even know! Well, of_ course _, I wasn’t going to be a coward and they did catch me, but that man lost my trust anyways. No moral person just tells you to fall like that.”_

I laugh again, sending a little prayer out to the man who got my mom to participate in a trust fall exercise. He has to have nerves of steel. I notice it’s still quiet on my mom’s side, but she quickly picks up the silence a moment later.

_“You sound happy, Hunk.”_

I hum, not thinking much of it. “Well, maybe I am happy.”

I can almost hear the smirk in her voice. _“Well, maybe you should tell me who has my sunshine boy speaking to me with sunshine in his voice again.”_

My face drains.

_Lance._

Oh my god, I forgot to tell her about Lance.

It wasn’t on purpose, it’s just that we always end up talking so much about home and I just- do I sound… unhappy when I talk to her? Pidge never warned me that maybe I was being too capital s, Sad.

“Uh,” I supply, voice useless. “Uh, well. Well, just wait a second. How did you know it’s a person?”

_“I’m your mother, Hunk. There are exactly two times when you sound like this and one is when you’ve learned a new recipe and the other is when your heart is beating for someone other than Mark Hamill.”_

“You’re never going to let my Star Wars obsession die, are you?” I ask, fingers pressing into my eyelids because I can’t either.

 _“I want a name, sweetheart.”_ She replies, voice pointedly nice, striking fear into my being.

I draw out the silence for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to say his name like I’m not a hopeless romantic. It’s a useless battle and I defeatedly mutter, “Lance. His name is Lance.”

Our conversation ends about an hour later after she demanded to know everything about him. It certainly helped that I was entirely forthcoming with information since Pidge has long since grown tired of my endless comments about his freckles. Unfortunately, I did mention that he was a baker which prompted her to suggest getting a job with him. I wanted to protest, but it’s a worn out battle and now that I think about it, Lance manages to have such a nice place and only works part-time at a bakery, so, maybe… maybe there’s hope.

She doesn’t believe in ending conversations on a negative note, though, so she left me with, _“Well, whatever you do, darling, I’m just glad to have my sunshine boy back. Give Lance some smooches for your momma.”_

Which is the exact same time Pidge busts into the room carrying miscellaneous computer gear. They smirk at me, saying, “Yeah Hunk, how about you give Lance some smooches, since you haven’t yet. Hi, Hunk’s mom!”

My face goes beet red and I quickly tell my mom that I love her and I’ll call her later. She’s snickering on the other end of the line and tells me to says hi back to Pidge. I promptly hang up and remind myself to quit putting calls on speaker phone.

Pidge dumps their tech on the couch and turns to me, arms crossed. “So, how about it, Hunk?” they ask. “We’ve got a game date with handsome Lance, son. Ya gonna smooch him?”

My head falls forward into my hands, neck and ears going equally red as my face. “Pidge, can we stop calling it smooches. And I don’t know. We’re gonna have a good time and you can finally meet him.”

They smile at me and pick a medium sack out of their box, shaking it around. Quarters. Plenty of them. “Oh, I’m definitely gonna have a great time kicking all of your asses.”

My head grows heavier on my hands. I’m too caught up in thinking about Lance’s lips to give a proper comeback. It’s certain. I’m gonna get annihilated tonight. 

 


	5. I Am Simply Floured By You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOT WOOT IT'S UPDATE PART II. No comment needed here, but hoo boy will I meet you at the end. Have fun ;)

Lance meets us outside of the arcade, hands swinging, rocking back and forth on his heels singing some nameless tune. As soon as he catches sight of us, he starts jogging our way and comes up short in front of us, a smile on lips I am paying far too much attention to.

I hate you, Pidge.

They take no notice of my suffering and size up Lance in one look. They’re five one, but hell if they can’t be intimidating. Even Lance’s smile has nervousness inch into it.

Pidge pushes their glasses back up on their nose with a finger and takes their bag of quarters out of their pocket.

Skipping introductions entirely, they say, “I hope you brought your A-game because I am planning on ripping away all of your dignity tonight.”

The challenge brings back Lance’s confidence and he shoots right back, “Interesting, I’ve never had a B-game take away my dignity before.”

I hold my breath, eyes threatening to pop out of my head as I wait on Pidge’s reply. I’m surprised that they don’t fall out of my head completely as they tilt their head back with a loud cackling laugh and wipe at their eyes.

“I like you already,” they say, giving Lance a pat on the shoulder and walks past him. “Come on losers, it’s time to watch a professional at work.”

Lance lets go of his breath with a giant sigh and holds up two thumbs, a crooked grin on his face. “Good?” he asks.

I shake my head and smile back. “Perfect.”

XXXXXXXXX

I knew I was going to have my gaming ass handed to me, but I didn’t think it’d be by Pidge _and_ Lance. I thought I at least had some game on the baker, but apparently, he’s a guy of many talents. One of these days it’s going to be my turn to flip the twenty questions table on him.

We’ve managed to get through all the vintage games and ended up on the video consoles. We just finished Mortal Kombat and Lance and Pidge are tied with wins. So, as we use up the last of our funds and time left for the arcade to be open, Pidge switches the console over to Mario Kart, Lance and them silently agreeing that this will be their tie breaker.

I hold up my hands in protest. “Now, guys, let’s be reasonable. This is a game meant to break friendships, not strengthen them.”

They both shoot glares at me, already selecting their players (Lance got Waluigi and Pidge ended up with Yoshi). I immediately shut up and pick Princess Peach. If I’m going down (again), at least it will be in style.

When the race finishes, there are only great sighs of exasperation and disbelief to be had. I can’t feel sorry in the slightest. I mean, I did warn them of the power of Mario Kart races. Granted, I didn’t mention that I planned on ripping the win from both of them in one fell swoop. The holder of the blue shell has no choice but to be merciless.

Lance collapses dramatically on the floor and Pidge sends curses towards the heavens. I have to bite back a prideful smile.

“We just have to play again-” Pidge starts to say, but is immediately cut off as an overhead voice says that the building is closed and asks for any remaining players to exit (specifically, us).

Lance groans a mournful “no” from the ground. I laugh and pull him up, grabbing Pidge’s hand and leading the melancholy souls away from the TV.

As we step outside, Lance and Pidge veer away from me and secretly conspire. It’s always a nerve-wracking time to have your best friend and boyfriend turn against you.

I regret my blue shell win.

Suddenly, they shake hands and turn back to me.

Pidge sniffs and says, “Well, Hunk, since you’ve decided to take our victory from us, we’re simply going to have to do this again sometime.”

Lance nods solemnly. “Yes, indeed. Sometime again.”

Then they both crack a smile and pat each other on the back. I end up smiling, as well. Clearly, the power of Mario Kart is not meant to be understood. 

We’re all startled out of the moment by a car horn beeping at us from the road. I only need to have a quick glance at the model to know it’s Keith. However, the alien conspiracy stickers help, too.

He brakes hard to the protest of other vehicles and his head shoots up on the other side of the car. Pidge face palms. Lance looks bewildered. I am too, honestly.

“Pidge! I got your-” he begins.

Immediately, Pidge cuts him off, yelling, “Oh! Keith, what a surprise for you to show up here!”

Nice save, I think.

They follow the outburst with, “I think I’m gonna go and see if we can score any weird stuff at some thrift shops,” and then they fist bump Lance, leaving him with a friendly challenge. “You’re going down next time, Pastry.”

Lance takes it with a shrug, still looking confused at the arrival of Keith. Pidge turns to me and grabs my shirt, bringing me down to their level.

At a low whisper, they say, “Have a good time, Hunk. Hold his hand or some shit.” Then they lean back, smirk, and run over to jump into the passenger side of Keith’s car.

I manage to hear Keith say something along the lines of “But you texted me-” only to hear a sharp “ow” and Pidge telling him to get going.

Thanks, Pidge. Not like I’m incapable of holding Lance’s hand with you here or anything.

I look up and I see Lance looking at me bug-eyed.

“Uh, Keith, is it?” he starts. “Is Pidge okay with him?”

I impulsively think, is Keith okay with Pidge, but I properly answer with a confident, “Sort of. Yes. They’ll be fine.”

Lance suspiciously replies, “Uh huh...”

I laugh a little at the ridiculousness of the situation. “No, really. They’re just huge nerds who’ll probably spend the night watching retro cartoons or something. They just don’t know when to call quits on Mountain Dew and Doritos and that they should wake up to the sun, not see it rise.”

I earn another, less suspicious, “Uh huh…” and take the lull as a cue to start walking towards my apartment.

We’re quiet for a bit, listening to the sounds of the city as we walk side by side. Lance keeps glancing down and I wonder what he’s thinking about. I don’t wonder too hard, though, because every time he darts his tongue out to wet his lips my heart stutters.

Working myself out of my kissing trance I finally realize that he keeps looking at his hand. It’s stuck straight against his side, fingers tapping off beat against his thigh.

_Cute._

I swallow hard and reach out, carefully touching his knuckles, giving him the opportunity to move away or return the gesture. Clearly, he was waiting for this because he immediately moves his hand and intertwines his fingers with mine, arms flush against each other.

Heat fills my cheeks and graces the tips of my ears. My hand nearly swallows his, but he is brushing his thumb in small circles around my skin and there's not a single thing that I would change.

Lance glances over and he’s started to blush, too. When we make eye contact, he quickly leaps into a rambling conversation.

“So, Pidge is really awesome. Like, wow, I mean, I know you said that they were cool and we always talk about what they’re up to, but I honestly wasn’t even prepared for that level of cool. I can’t believe I held my own against them and you, Hunk, oh my god. How could you blue shell us at the last moment?! I was in first! And we both ended up finishing after the CP’s. That’s the greatest shame I’ve brought on my family, you know? I’m a Mario Kart champ back home. I can never show my face to them again. Lance the Great Loser of Virtual Races is my new name now. A sham. I am but a sham.”

I watch his face the whole time he speaks, careful to see the energy and excitement materialize in his eyebrows and mouth. He goes on about the time he won in a tournament and taught his brothers the way of the Glitch. He starts talking about how Pidge reminds him of his siblings and how he didn’t realize how much he missed them. He talks about his house and how big his family is and ends up on a conversation about dogs and I’m too captivated to do anything other than offer light replies.

I think about how I could listen to him forever. It’s not a startling thought, but it’s there nonetheless. I honestly can’t believe that this is mine. I get to hold his hand and hear him talk about anything and everything and in turn, he listens to me and is completely interested in what I think and say. I never thought I’d have something like this.

There are people laughing across the street, leaning on each other, howling and jumping around like they’re in their own universe. A slight drizzle has started, leaving a watery shine on Lance’s hair. His eyes are glistening and my heart is thumping and it takes a hot second for me to register that he’s pulled us to a halt.

He looks at me with curious eyes. “Hey Hunk?” he asks.

I nod my head and reply with a simple, “Yeah?”

I’ve noticed that there is a direct correlation between my proximity to his face and sudden bouts of limited word choice.

He tilts his head to one side and has that strange look on his face again. The one he had when we first had coffee together and the one he gets when I just do _something_ (I’m not sure what). The light drizzle is picking up into solid drops, but all of my senses are focused on whatever moment we’re in right now.

There’s something there in the way he’s looking at me and I can’t figure out what it is. He hasn’t said anything yet, so I cautiously laugh and ask, “What is it?”

He swallows hard and grips my hand tighter, our skin wet from the rain. He takes a half step towards me and I finally realize what the look is.

Moving closer, he asks, “Can I?” and that word choice correlation is brought into singularity, where the best I can do is nod, tongue coming out to push away the water on my lips.

He gently smiles and my eyes fall closed. So this is really happening.

I can’t believe it. I honestly can’t. But I lower my head towards him anyways, sensibility taking control.

Turns out sensibility can only control so much because just as we are about to meet, the sky cracks open with a piercing strike of lighting and literal buckets of water crash down on us.

There was a reason I couldn’t believe it. Thank you Nature for reminding me that some things are too good to be true.

I grab his hand and yell out that we aren’t too far from my place. I think he heard me because he has no problem taking off down the street, his fingers locked tight with mine, our shoes slapping hard against the ground.

We tumble into my apartment after I manage to get the key in despite trembling hands (night rain equals cold rain). Lance is rubbing at his arms shivering and I run across to the thermostat, cranking up the heat. I hurry to grab some towels and return to Lance who is absolutely drenched. I can’t imagine I’m in any better condition, but god if he doesn’t make miserably wet look beautiful.

I gently hand a towel to him with an apology. I should have checked the weather, but its interruption was too perfectly orchestrated for me to believe I could have altered this scenario in any way.

He gratefully accepts it and wraps it around himself as he toes off flooded shoes. I do the same and run my own towel roughly through my hair. When I relent against my sopping head and drop my hand to my side, I hear a quick snort. Looking up, I see Lance covering his mouth with his own towel, trying to muffle laughter, but failing horribly.

I smirk and ask, “What? Have I got something on my head?”

He laughs even harder and replies, “Hunk, you just. You have-” he starts laughing even harder and simply walks over to me. Grinning with that same elation he had when I first bought bread from him, he reaches a hand up and starts brushing thin fingers through my mop of hair.

I start laughing too and reach my own hand up to help with the bird's nest that’s suddenly grown up there. My hand catches on his and our laughter quietly dies down.

 _Is this okay?_ I silently ask with a slight raise of my eyebrows.

His hand moves down to the side of my face, mine following along, brushing away a few droplets that evaded me.

 _Yes_ , seems to be his answer.

I swallow hard and nerves suddenly blossom in my chest. “I, uh, have extra clothes if you’d like to change-” I start.

He seems to understand that the earlier mood has been replaced with some tension and he drops his hand to my ultimate dismay. God dammit, Hunk. God. Dammit.

“Yeah,” he laughs, looking down at his attire. “I think dry clothes would be a good idea. I like water, but I think this is excessive.”

I nod and reply, “There’s also a…. Pull out couch if you’d like to stay the night.”

“Yeah?” he replies.

Sheepish, instantly worried that I’ve overstepped my bounds, I immediately backtrack saying, “Well, only if you want to, I mean, it’s late and I don’t think the rain's gonna let up anytime soon, but if you prefer a bed, I guess you could have mine-”

I immediately shut up. Forget being cold, my entire existence is on fire. That last part was never supposed to come out.

Lance’s funny look immediately springs on his face and I bite my lip, waiting for his reply.

“Hunk,” he begins, voice catching on a thought, “can I kiss you, please?”

I didn't think hearing it voiced would change anything, but I immediately have a lump in my throat and my eyes get all watery. Lip still caught between my teeth, the best answer I can provide is a fervent nod.

He drops his towel and crosses the small space between us, both hands coming up to the sides of my face. My own arms stay loose at my sides.

He stares seriously into my eyes and the fire burning in my cheeks turns into molten lava.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he states, hands softening on my face.

Words are hard. As is trying not to cry because it's actually happening. Lance wants to kiss me and there is no room for skepticism. All I can do is release my bottom lip and close my eyes, trusting him to take care of this. Of me. 

And he does.

It’s just the slightest of sensations; as if he was still making sure that I was okay with this. We both open our eyes for a moment and I make sure he knows that I am more than okay, my arms finally deciding to work as they come up to wrap around his back, dragging against his wet shirt.

We come together again, sure in each other and what we want. My arms tighten and Lance’s hands slip into my insane hair and we press against each other like any space could take this moment from us. Our kiss is uneven and our noses push against the other’s cheek and we’re both very damp, but it couldn’t be more perfect. His fingers carding through my hair, my arms very nearly bringing him off the floor, our breath shared for entire heartbeats; I can’t believe it took us this long to reach this point.

Quietly, we release each other, amazement in both of our eyes.

“Holy shit…” Lance whispers.

Breathlessly, I reply, “Me too. Me too.”

His face breaks into that blinding smile and he laughs. I’m caught in it too and we’re both giggling like we’re in high school again.

After both of our stomachs begin to hurt, I manage to ask, “So, uh, dry clothes? How about it?”

Another laugh manages to slip out as he replies, “Yes. Please. Dry clothes would be sweet.”

With a smile, I say, “Gotchya,” and turn to walk to my bedroom. I don’t even get a step in before a hand reaches out to my shoulder, turning me back around. I find Lance’s lips on mine once more and I hope he ignores my high pitched noise of surprise. Apparently, it didn’t even register as he leans back and quietly says, “And I’ll take the bed if you don’t mind.”

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a boy kisses you and you cry, right? If this is the cheesiest thing you've ever read in your life, please understand that I omitted the line "Cold rain was never so steamy." Now you've read the cheesiest thing in your life. 
> 
> On a different note, I truly hope you all had a great time reading!! And I hope I can take this somewhere even better next time (and no, it's not into the bedroom you sneaky lil readers). Have a great day/night/life and I'll see you all next time!!


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